Closeness and Cleverness
by Vaetra
Summary: Another -dare I say it?- collection of the usual angsty, depressing, odd, at times romantic one-shots. Some Sweenett and some not. And these aren't even semi connected...
1. Ode on Melancholy

It never used to be this grey before

_Okay, this first one was kind of originally inspired by one of the perfume prompts from 6impearfics on LiveJournal. I actually don't know if this is allowed, considering I don't actually have an LJ account, but if I'm breaking any rules, just let me know, and I will take this down. Anyway, the prompt is: _

_Ode on Melancholy: Beauty, joy, pleasure, delight: devastated. This is the scent of hopelessness, torment and despair of love. Lavender and wisteria, heart-wrenching pale rose, desolate white sandalwood and thin, tear-streaked white musk._

_For some reason this made me think of what Sweeney might have been like if Mrs Lovett hadn't kept his razors and he hadn't become a killer. So I guess it's a bit AU too. It's sweet… enough to make you gag, but do try to suppress that reflex long enough to review._

It never used to be this grey before. Before, the world had been brimming with colour: the sun centers of papery white daisies, the shatterglass blue sky skimming the tops of the whispery green trees, and of course, there had been _her_. _She_, an angel made flesh and fallen into his arms like the most heavenly gift imaginable. His sigh was a wistful kiss on the air as he remembered- her primrose pink dress, only a shade darker than he blushing cheeks, her twilight eyes, and hair like white gold. Oh yes, Lucy had been the most delicately colourful of all his fractured memories.

But now, there was nothing left in the world but the lack of her presence, the sheer _absence _of colour that wore a cloak of pale grey to cover its horrifying emptiness. Without his love, Sweeney Todd's world was nothing but a blank canvas, completely bare of everything. There were times when, vaguely, he felt that perhaps he should try to fill it, to paint on the canvas, but he could never think of the appropriate colour with which to make his mark. He felt too like a great realization lay just beyond that thought, but he couldn't seem to pin it down, so he let his mind move on to other matters.

Mr Todd turned from the window, rain licking its way down the glass, and let his black gaze sweep once more over the dusty grey room. Perhaps it was better this way, he thought. Simply being in his old home, albeit a changed one brought up enough memories welling like tears in his throat. If everything was as vibrant as it used to be, he didn't know if he would be able to stand it. Yes, grey was better. It wasn't beautiful or poetic, but it helped him endure. He didn't have to close his eyes, he could just look at they grey, let its plainness drown out his colourful memories. It was the colour of forgetting.

But then- why couldn't he? Todd clenched his fist against the windowsill. _Why_ couldn't he just let it go? He wanted more than anything to be rid of these accursed tender memories that tore him slowly apart each and every day. But then he was instantly awash with guilt for even thinking of forgetting his dear Lucy, for even considering betraying her like that. But doubt still scraped at him like cloth catching on a thorn. Surely it wasn't natural to still be heartbroken over a thing that happened heaven knows how many years ago. Surely it would be better to just- "Shut _up_." Sweeney Todd said to the doubt.

"Mr T?" the doubt said.

He whirled. Mrs Lovett stood in the doorway, her brow furrowed, but her eyes still full of concerned sincerity.

"Oh."

"You alright, love? I worry about you sometimes, up here alone for hours. Don't you ever get lonely?" She realized only after the words were out how tactless they must seem. She winced and waited for his reaction.

The violence and horror that had both destroyed and recreated the man during those fifteen years on Devil's Island told him to lash out at her, to hurt her and make her suffer for her thrice-damned _inquisitiveness_, but something about the honesty written so plainly in her face stopped him. Lucy used to look like that, so trusting and innocent, (though he knew that Mrs Lovett was anything but that.) Still, the vulnerability in her kohl-smudged dark eyes made yet more painful recollections surge to the surface of his already troubled mind, and he found he couldn't look at her. Todd turned away, and heard her breathe a sigh of relief. She was afraid of him.

But then he felt her hand, light on his shoulder, and he almost admired her bravery as she said softly, "I wish you'd come downstairs, Mr Todd."

He wished she'd leave him alone. He turned again to face her, her hand dropping from his shoulder. Mrs Lovett's eyes shone, as they always seemed to when she looked on him, with tenderness and devotion and a maddening understanding, like she knew what he was going through. She didn't. He narrowed his eyes, but hers remained wide and amorous. Why couldn't her frighten her anymore? Again, there was something in her loving expression that reminded him of Lucy, the way she used to look at Benjamin Barker.

Mrs Lovett… loved him. This realization was hazy, like a shape seen through frosted glass, but it made Mr Todd frown, and take a step closer to the woman before him. Mrs Lovett's eyes were wary now, though still not fearful. He smiled, admiring her for it. There weren't many women who could watch a grinning Sweeney Todd advancing on them and still stand their ground. But when he was just a hand's breadth away from her, Sweeney paused. _What_ had he been about to do? But really, he knew the answer, and hated himself for it.

He had let himself pretend, for a moment, that she was Lucy, let himself imagine that simply because the woman's expression had reminded him of her, that she really was his wife returned to him. Perhaps he had even believed it, too- so intent had he been on seeing what he wanted that the truth hardly mattered.

But it was still there, the truth that Mrs Lovett was not his Lucy, never would be. No one, no matter how devoted, could ever replace an angel. This truth pulsed through him like sluggish poison in his veins, and suddenly, Mr Todd found himself trembling uncontrollably, barely able to stand. He staggered forward and was only aware that Mrs Lovett had caught him when he felt her arms tighten across his chest as she guided him over to her husband's old chair. He collapsed into it, eyes shut tight against the world. What on earth was wrong with him? Why would those memories just _leave him alone?_ His landlady's arms were still around him, and now they softened into an embrace, and he felt her press her face into his chest.

It tore Mrs Lovett apart to see her Mr Todd like this. He shook with tears that couldn't fall, and so she cried for the both of them- for his lost live, and for her lifelong lack of it, for those horrific fifteen years, and all of their memories that haunted the pair like insatiable demons, hungry for blood. Todd felt the wetness of her tears on his shirt, and almost instinctively wrapped his arms around Mrs Lovett, while his eyes remained screwed shut. Perhaps somewhere in his ruined soul, he cared for her as well, in his way. She closed her eyes and buried her face in his chest, as though she was trying to hide from the world. How long they stayed like that, neither could say, but finally Mrs Lovett stood up.

"Come downstairs, love," she said. "I'll make you a cup of tea."

He nodded and stood. She opened the door, and he followed her down the stairs.


	2. Mania

_Alright, this was sort of inspired by watching the final scene of the movie again, and also because I wanted to do something that really illustrated Mrs Lovett's madness. It's rather short and morbid, but… there you are. (No Sweenett here, sorry.)_

_The problem with dying,_ Mrs Lovett thought to herself, _is that it's so easy to do._ An accidental slip of a knife, a sip of the wrong draught, a stumble on a bridge over rushing water, and that was it. No chance to go back and save yourself, no helpful voice in the shadows warning you against your fate. _Are you sure you want to go _that _way?_ It was just over. And the worst thing was that it was usually your own fault.

Mrs Lovett had seen men die, or seen them just before they drew their last breath. She had seen their honest, oblivious faces, and then heard the slick sound of well-oiled gears turning, the groan of wood as it bent in new, hideous ways, and the undeniable smash of a skull cracking on the stone floor below. And later, she had cleaned up after them, dealing efficiently and dispassionately with the remains death had left behind after he had come to these men, with a ferocious smile and a glint of silver in his eye. At first the baker had been horrified at how easily they went, never suspecting until it was too late. Surely there must be some instinct, some red flag to go up in the brain when they stood face to face with their own grinning doom. She'd even wondered- absurdly, she knew- if _she_ should be the one to warn them, give them the chance that nature denied, just to even things out a bit.

Then she would laugh at herself. The baker had since learned to ignore such foolish misgivings. Now she felt nothing for these men, save a faint disgust at their inability to see what lay before their very eyes. She had learned too that death came swiftly, silently, and without warning, like a flicker of heat lightning on a summer night. And so she was always looking out for it, almost subconsciously glancing over her shoulder for the wicked gleam of silver that would mean it was all over. For despite her fantasies of growing old by the sea, Mrs Lovett knew that a woman like her wouldn't die a natural death.

Ironic then, that for all her precautions, she still didn't see death until it held her in its fiery red embrace. There _had_ been warnings: the utter heartbreak and betrayal in her beloved's eyes, before that melted away to leave a smilingly false expression of love; the way his blood-slicked fingers had laced just a little too tightly in hers; the razor, still cold despite the blood and the hot bake house, that he still gripped in his other hand as they danced. It pressed into her back, screaming at her to open her eyes, to see that he was waltzing her straight toward the inferno- but of course she didn't. How could she, when those bottomless black eyes held her so wonderfully, wouldn't let her go?

Their expression of fierce compassion told her that all her dreams were finally- _finally_- going to come true, until suddenly, his eyes began to change, the ferocity taking over, consuming the frail imitation of love until she was gazing up at a twisted mask of hate, the mouth snarling sweet promises to her, the eyes burning hotter than the roaring oven behind them. His eyes were he last warning, and they came too late- she could already feel the ungodly heat searing her back.

She knew what was going to happen, and she laughed at the sheer horror of it, the irony, the tragedy.

Laughing as they spun around the stifling, bloodstained bake house- so very like Hell itself.

Laughing as he lied violently to her. _Yes, by the sea, my love. Forgive and forget. Keep on living._

Laughing as his eyes ignited and he shoved her backwards.

Laughing as she began to burn.

But quickly, the flames melted away her sugary insanity. Ablaze in the oven, shrieking now, Mrs Lovett thought- as well as she could think while she was dying- that there could be nothing worse than seeing the man you loved smiling with cold satisfaction as you went up in flames. Tears evaporated, hissing on her cheeks. But underneath that, she couldn't help but marvel at death's cleverness. So quiet and cunning, he had surprised even her, and she had been as blindly unaware as all of the other men who had ended up in here. She hadn't been watching, and now it was over. Just like that. With a mouth that no longer drew breath, Mrs Lovett began to laugh.


	3. Of Alcohol and Inventions

Mrs Lovett downed the contents of her glass with a grimace

_Okay, these perfume prompts are actually really fun, so I decided to do another one. _

_Ultraviolet: Electrifying, mechanized, and chilly- the scent of crushed blooms strewn on cold metal. Lush violet and neroli spiked hard with eucalyptus and a sliver of mint._

_And from that, I somehow came up with this. If you can't see the connection, don't worry- neither can I. (Oh, and I defend any possible OOCness of Mr Todd's later actions by saying that he was probably almost as drunk as Mrs Lovett. If that's not giving too much away…)_

Mrs Lovett downed the contents of her glass with a grimace. Even after years of drinking the stuff, gin still tasted like chemicals to her. It had been a long day, one of the longest in the woman's memory. Despite the impression she had given Sweeney Todd of the exhausted, overworked baker, in truth her life really hadn't been very busy in those last fifteen years. With no one but the occasional brave stranger who didn't know any better to sample her foul creations, there had hardly been any need to run herself off her feet making dozens upon dozens of pies, when they would all end up being tossed out anyway.

But after today, she knew things would be different. For today had been somewhat exceptional. The arrival of that darling boy and his dreadful master- the brutality of whose murder had surprised even her- and then the narrow escape of the judge, followed by a rather spectacular outburst from her poor Mr Todd, (whose mood had changed dramatically when she voiced her wonderful idea for a course enterprise of their own) would have alone been enough to leave Mrs Lovett as drained as she was. But after all that excitement, there was also the decidedly horrible experience of painstakingly butchering and grinding up the bloody remains of the pompous Italian, and baking the meat- _his_ meat- into a fresh batch of pies.

The thought of it now mad her stomach churn and she refilled her glass with more clear, burning alcohol.

Making the Pirelli pies had taken longer than Mrs Lovett had anticipated, and it was now so late at night that it was technically early. The baker winced to herself, though not entirely because of the gin stinging her throat. She couldn't remember being this exhausted, but her buzzing head, combined with the odd noises sifting down from Sweeney Todd's Tonsorial Parlour wouldn't allow her to sleep. A clang of metal followed by a loud creak sounded from upstairs, and she looked up, frowning at the ceiling. What _was_ he doing up there?

At that moment, there was another thud, and then she heard the barber's footsteps rattling down the rain-slick stairs outside. This served to increase Mrs Lovett's confusion. It wasn't like him to run _anywhere_. But then, the front door banged open with a creak of age-old hinges and the jingle of a bell, and her head snapped around, half afraid of what she might see. It was Mr Todd as she had expected, but she saw that his mouth was not twisted in a snarl of rage, but drawn into a feral grin- an expression that was mirrored on Mrs Lovett's face, for if Sweeney Todd was happy, so was she.

Their shared gleefulness didn't prevent her from fussing over him, though. "What's wrong, love? It's very late, you know"-

He was already crossing the room, however, and seized her wrist, his eyes alight with a fire she recognized- the same dangerously ecstatic smile he'd worn when she'd come up with her idea about the pies. "Mrs Lovett," he breathed, his voice electric with wicked excitement. "I've something to show you."

The baker's imagination instantly embarked on a thousand delighted fantasies about what those words could mean, but he was already pulling her outside and up the stairs to his shop. It was raining again but neither of them was in any state to notice. Todd shoved open the door and his landlady followed eagerly, still delirious in a cloud of invented happiness. The barber crossed quickly to the shabby armchair in the center of the room and placed his foot on a wrought iron pedal she had never noticed before. This didn't fit her fantasy. "Mr T"-

"_Watch._" He pressed down firmly on the pedal and suddenly, the chair was shifting, unfolding like one of his razors. It laid itself out flat, tilting back with a clunk of gears, and a section of the floor swung open on a hinge, revealing a dark chasm that she realized led down to her very own bake house.

Despite having her most improper hopes and dreams of a few moments ago unfulfilled, Mrs Lovett was delighted. "Oh, Mr Todd, it's _brilliant_!" Before he could ward her off, she reached up and placed a careful, chaste kiss on his death-pale cheek.

He winced and shifted away from her, but he was still too proud of his new invention to get very angry with is foolish neighbour. "Go get us something to drink." He told her brusquely.

With a quick nod, she was off down the stairs again, cheeks flushed from her clumsy attempt at romance. To distract herself, she grabbed two glasses and the bottle of gin with extra vigor, almost sloshing some of the precious liquid onto the floor. She had already emptied nearly half of it herself, and her journey back upstairs was something less than steady. She managed it though, and opened the door to find Mr Todd sitting in his newly converted barber's chair, toying idly with one of his glittering blades. He shut it with a snap as she came in and nodded slightly.

Her stomach fluttering with glee at their almost companionship, Mrs Lovett slid forward and handed him a glass, filling it along with her own. There was nowhere to sit, so she perched on the arm of his chair, feeling like a favoured consort of the Devil himself. She took a sip of the fiery liquor and glanced down at him. He stared straight ahead, drinking his gin in silence. One would never guess that those dead eyes had been burning with fiendish delight only a few minutes before. He seemed now completely indifferent to her presence, and she wondered vaguely what was the point of this.

But he was still near to her, and her head was swimming pleasantly, so Mrs Lovett sat back (as comfortably as she could on the arm of the chair-machine) and sipped delicately from her glass, for once enjoying the quiet between them. The minutes flickered by like lights seen from the window of a speeding train and the baker began to feel giddy with the alcohol pounding in her head. She giggled.

Todd flicked her a glance, neither hostile nor friendly, and then took another swig of gin. Only when it had passed all the way down his throat did he say, in a monotone reserved for the dearest of friends: "What?"

Though Mrs Lovett had barely known him- the _new_ him- for more than a few weeks, in that moment he seemed heart-wrenchingly familiar. The warm lantern light traced his cheekbone, gilding it, and his ragged cravat hung loosely about his throat, no doubt pulled askew during the work he must have done on his murderous new machine. How clever he was, her gin-dulled brain mumbled to itself, how handsome… Before she could stop herself, the baker leaned forward, nearly overbalancing on the narrow arm of the chair, and pressed her mouth against his in an untidy kiss. He didn't respond, so she tried harder, placing a hand on his shoulder and trying to press herself against him. With this shift in weight, however, Mrs Lovett really did lose her balance, and she tumbled forward into Sweeney Todd's lap, the glass of gin falling from her hand and spilling its contents on the dusty wooden floor.

She felt his form stiffen and risked a glance up into his face. It was smooth and cold as polished marble. After a moment he said softly. "You spilled the gin."

Mrs Lovett blinked in surprise. Then she noticed the cold liquid that had spilled on her skirts and was spreading across the floor. "Oh- I"- She started to try to right herself, when she realized (for the first time) that she was sitting in Mr Todd's lap and turned bright red, coughing in a vain attempt to cover her embarrassment. He remained perfectly still as she climbed out of the chair.

He stared at her as she dusted off her skirts. She could see what he was going to say, so she beat him to it. "S-sorry." She turned and made for the door. "I'll just…" She stopped when she felt his hand, warm on her neck, and his gin-laced breath in her ear. His voice was low, and his closeness sent a whisper of longing down her spine.

"Stay."


	4. Poppies

_Sorry there's been a bit of a wait- finals have been making mincemeat out of me. But after Wednesday it's all over! Yay! Anyway, this is rather silly, but what with my mom constantly telling me to come outside and look at the poppies, it was impossible for me _not_ to think of this._

"It's awfully gloomy up here, you know, Mr T."

"Mmm."

"Not very inviting."

"Indeed."

"Don't you think it needs something? Something to add a touch of gentility?"

His black eyes, which had been sliding lovingly up and down the length of sharpened silver in his hand, finally snapped away from it and focused instead on the woman at his elbow. "And what, precisely, did you have in mind, Mrs Lovett?"

The baker was glad that they had finally reached the point at which she had been driving, but she made her voice casual as she continued. "Flowers, maybe. Daisies might look nice, over there on the mantelpiece."

Mr Todd saw, unbidden in his mind, an image of a smiling Benjamin Barker, holding up a pretty white daisy for his infant daughter to coo over. "No. Not daisies."

His landlady was undeterred. "Gillyflowers, then?"

"What are they?"

Mrs Lovett rolled her eyes and squeezed his arm playfully. "Oh, Mr T, don't be silly. _You_ know"—

Angrily, Todd shrugged her hand off and turned fully around to face the woman. She had been grinding his nerves all day— dragging him downstairs for breakfast and standing patiently by his chair until he ate, trying to get him to go out to the market with her, and now coming upstairs to bother him with some inane babble about _flowers_. It was too much. "Frankly, Mrs Lovett, I don't _care_ what gillyflowers are, nor whether or not you put them in my shop. Pile the place with six dozen bouquets of roses if you like. I don't _give_ a damn! Get whatever kind of bloody flowers you want, just get _out!_"

He had expected her to crumple, and for a moment, she did. But just as quickly, her stricken face lit with a look of realization so brilliant, it almost reminded him of his own epiphany several weeks ago. The barber frowned. This wasn't exactly the reaction he'd been looking for.

"Bloody flowers…" she muttered, almost to herself. "I'll be right back," she blurted, and promptly ran out of his shop.

Todd shook his head. "Mad woman."

All too soon, the baker had returned, standing coyly in the doorway of his Tonsorial Parlour, a barely suppressed grin of self-satisfaction pulling her features, her hands quite obviously hiding something behind her back. She bounced on the balls of her feet, dark eyes brimming up at him. "Mr Todd… guess what I've got."

He knew she would show him anyway, and so he refused to partake in her little game. "No."

"Oh, come on, love. Don't you want to"—

He started to turn back to the window, and she darted forward, grabbing his sleeve and holding out the thing she had been hiding in the other hand. It was a bouquet of flowers, as he'd gloomily anticipated, but he was surprised to find that they were neither pink nor overpoweringly fragrant. No, they bloomed like bursts of blood in her hands, black-centered, velvety. In his room of white and grey, they exploded like fireworks against the eye, violent in their beauty. After so long in the monochromatic pit of filth that was London, Todd was almost blinded by the bouquet Mrs Lovett held proffered to him. He looked up at her. "What…"

"Poppies." Her smile widened. "I knew you'd like them."

"Yes…" He was still staring at the blossoms, each petal smiling softly at him, so like those other rubies he was always captivated by. Mrs Lovett rolled her eyes good-naturedly and set about arranging the flowers' long stems in a vase on the chiffonier in the corner. They glowed there, reflected again in the mirror behind them. She looked back at her tenant, hoping optimistically for a thank you or a kind word, but she could see that he was already gone, moved on from the brief red flare of happiness her gift had brought him, and once again completely consumed by the beauty of his constant silver companion.

With a bitter smile, she turned and left the room.

Todd stayed where he was-- stock-still by the window, bottomless black eyes reaching out to the London skyline, staring as though he was trying to see past the grey buildings into the indiscernible future beyond— until the bell on the door rang again, heralding the arrival of his latest unlucky customer. Sweeney turned slowly, fixing across his mouth that false smile that fit so ill his face, yet some how worked every time. "Welcome, sir." He said, snapping shut his razor— already glimmering in anticipation—and dropping it back into the holster at his belt. "What may I do for you today?"

A middle-aged man in a brushed top hat and coattails, the unwitting pie-to-be ran a hand across his jaw line. "Well, Mr Todd, I've heard tell you can do wondrous things with a knife. I'm in need of a shave, and I wonder if you couldn't show me your skills."

The barber's smile widened just a fraction of an inch. He gestured to the waiting chair in the center of the room—like him, so different in appearance than it was in actuality. "Certainly, sir. Do sit down."

As Sweeney Todd tied the swath of white linen around his neck and lathered his face with thick, equally white cream, the man peered curiously about the shop, as if some primal instinct told him to get a good look at his surroundings—the last he would see in this world. As Mr Todd reopened his razor with a metallic snap, his customer glanced over at the poppies, so carefully arranged in their vase. "Those are nice flowers." He commented idly, half a moment before the silver buried itself in his throat, sending rubies spraying up into the air like countless crimson birds in flight.

Wiping the red from his eyes with a free hand, Todd glanced over at the flowers, their paper-thin scarlet blossoms now made even gaudier by the blood collecting in their delicate petals. He pressed down on the pedal and watched his latest victim fall gruesomely to the floor. Then he looked back at the vase of poppies, a slight smile gracing his colourless lips. "Yes. They are."


	5. Leather Coat

_Wow, it's been a while. Sorry about that. This is written for 6impearfics on . The prompt list is called Sin and Salvation, and here's the first one:_

_Dorian: "The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden itself." Refined, elegant, and lovely, with a noble bearing and seemingly gentle air. This blend is an artful deception, a sweet gilded blossom lying over a twisted and corrupted core. A Victorian fougere with three pale musks and dark, sugared vanilla tea._

She hadn't wanted to mention the other barber at first, not wanting to awaken any sense of competition in her tenant. His emotional state was delicate enough as it was, and she didn't like to risk tempting that hard, cold violence she sometimes thought she saw lurking beneath the surface of his glittering eyes. But it had been the only way to get him to even think of going out of the house—which had been her main objective all along—so she went with it, hinting not so subtly that the great Sweeney Todd might just have a rival in the city.

'I don't know, Mr Todd,' she said, shrugging. 'I _hear_ he's the best barber in London. Mind you, that's just what they're saying on the streets…' Mrs Lovett delicately trailed off with a tone of feigned unconcern, but her eyes were watching the barber warily.

He glanced up from the stained wood of the table before him. 'The best, you say?'

She grinned, delighted with how easily she could get him to acquiesce to her wishes while still thinking it was his idea. ''S what I'm told, Mr T.'

With a smirk, Todd stood up, starting to make his way to the parlour where he had dumped his worn leather coat.

She stood as well, cutting him off. 'I'll get it, love.' Sweeney shrugged and remained standing stiffly in the exact same position, as if he was too desolate even to shift his weight once in a while. Mrs Lovett couldn't help the smile that twitched at her thin mouth as she went into the parlour to retrieve his coat. She, of course, was already wearing her Sunday best, having anticipated this conquest, and dressing accordingly. She walked briskly through the door and into the dusty, ill-lit room that she had filled over the years with girlish, lace-trimmed fans and china statuettes of young women carrying parasols and holding the leashes of smiling, toy-sized dogs. Sweeney Todd's shiny black coat looked like a stain of ink against all those frills and pastels, but Mrs Lovett found she almost liked it better than the other accessories in the room that she had chosen herself.

She bent and picked up the coat from the striped sofa, running her hands over the smooth leather. It was slightly textured with thin lines that ran up and down it like the veins of a leaf, and if felt cool when she held it to her cheek. The baker breathed in, smelling the leather, a musky cologne he used, and the faint tang of something metallic. With a little shiver, she folded the coat over her arm and carried it back out to the front of the shop where Mr Todd still stood, unmoving as a statue of marble.

Treading carefully, Mrs Lovett moved around behind him and opened the coat, spreading it over his shoulders like a cape. He was tense beneath her hands. The appropriate thing to do now, the baker thought, would be to lift her hands off of his shoulders, throw him a winning smile, and let him open the door for her as they made their way out into the city—but she didn't.

Facing away from her, Todd felt his landlady's hands linger, sliding down his shoulders, and her hot breath flutter on the back of his neck. He turned around slowly, characteristic glower firmly in place, but her touch remained, her fingers skimming the outsides of his arms. Their faces were very close, she leaning forward, lips parted as though she were trying to think of something to say, he ramrod straight, his head tilted ever so slightly away from the whisper of her breath.

Before he could pull back or push her away from him, though, Mrs Lovett gripped the lapels of Sweeney's leather overcoat, gathering her courage tight to her chest. It was either now or never. Her gaze flicked quickly, nervously down to his shoes and back up to his burnished dark eyes, which were churning now, like a brewing storm. 'This,' she stated, 'is a nice coat.'

Then, her heart threatening to beat its way out of her chest, the baker tilted her head forward, erasing the space between them with a careful kiss. Todd started, his hands moving lightly to her waist as if to steady himself. Mrs Lovett hardly noticed, though. Her fingers slid up his chest to rest at the back of his neck, not caring that the muscles taut with shock and horror, and she sighed against his mouth, tasting the Earl Grey tea she had forced on him that morning. He didn't know how long she'd wanted to do this.

After a moment, she drew away, risking a glance up into Sweeney Todd's shadow-rimmed eyes. She was disappointed, though not entirely surprised to find that they were still as empty as before. He took a decisive step back from her, and he hands slipped from his shoulders, falling limply back to her sides. The barber was looking at her as though he couldn't decide whether to wring her neck for her clumsy advances or to laugh at her unorthodox joke.

Finally: 'Thank you.' He said gruffly. Then he reached out a slender hand to touch the cameo amulet that was strung on a black ribbon around her thing neck. 'This,' he added, 'is a nice necklace.'

They walked through St Dunstan's market like a pair of wildcats—he stalking and she sauntering. Mr Todd seemed to have decided that she hadn't meant her abrupt and improper display of affection, and was taking it in stride as just another part of his landlady's undeniable oddness.

The significance of the encounter was not lost upon Mrs Lovett, however. Mr Todd hadn't warmed to her immediately, but it was a start. He'd come around soon, she was sure of it. After all, Sweeney Todd wasn't the same man as Benjamin Barker, as he'd said himself, and they therefore couldn't want the same things. Happy, glowing Benjamin had wanted his golden angel, but someone as cold as Mr Todd would never be suited to all that warmth. He'd need someone darker, more ruthless than Lucy could ever have been, and Mrs Lovett was certain it was only a matter of time before he realized just how perfect they would be together.

She told herself this as he walked to the front of Pirelli's caravan, holding up his shimmering silver razors in a challenge. She permitted herself a grin thoroughly soaked in self-satisfaction when he handed her his coat to hold as he made his way up onto the makeshift stage. She ran her tongue over her lips, still tasting the traces of dark tea from his reluctant mouth. Let no one say that Sweeney Todd was not completely and utterly hers.


End file.
